‘A dark blue Vauxhall.’
‘A Vauxhall.’ He turned and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Simone, who shook her head and shrugged. Caffery noted it – this silent conferring. It meant that even if he hadn’t decided it was the same person who had taken their cars, they had. Without knowing any of the details about what had happened to Rose Bradley they’d nailed their jacker as the same guy and had probably decided he’d taken Martha too. But Caffery had to keep an open mind. From a glance at Damien and Simone’s original statements the attacks had had common denominators: the theft had been fast, with violence, and the jacker’s clothing had been similar. A ski mask – not a Santa mask, but in both cases he’d been wearing a black jacket of some sort and low-slung jeans with loops and buckles. Probably a fashion thing, Simone had said in her statement. But it made him look like he was planning to climb Everest, not steal a car. Rose Bradley’s statement had said he was wearing jeans with little pockets and straps. Still, Caffery knew a handful of circumstantials like that didn’t add up to a definitive.
‘Damien? A dark-blue Vauxhall.’
‘It’s more than four years ago. Sorry. Not a Scooby.’
‘Simone?’
‘I’m sorry. There were cars everywhere. I really can’t remember.’
Caffery nudged the MP3 player so its directional mic faced her. ‘It was school drop-off time? In Bruton.’
She nodded and sat forward, eyes on the player. One arm she rested across her chest, hand placed lightly on her shoulder. The other she lowered to somewhere near her calf. ‘That’s right. I don’t know how much you already know, but Cleo was nine then. She’s turned ten since. It was two hours before I heard she was safe.’ She gave Damien a small, sympathetic smile. ‘The worst two hours of my life.’
Damien’s mouth hung half open. ‘Two hours?’ he said. ‘I had no idea. I never heard about any of this. No idea.’
‘It was in the local paper but it didn’t get much further. I suppose when a child comes back safe and sound you don’t hear about it. And, anyway, it was about the same time that foot-baller’s wife went missing. Misty Kitson? Nobody was interested in what had happened to us.’
‘Mrs Blunt?’ Caffery cut across her quickly. He didn’t want anyone veering off and talking about the Kitson case. He had his reasons. ‘Who was in the car that morning?’
‘Just me and Cleo.’
‘Where was your husband?’
‘Neil’d had an early meeting that day – he’s at the Citizens Advice Bureau, advises on child custody matters, that sort of thing. I’m afraid I’m the breadwinner – still in the dog-eat-dog end of life. Raking in the filthy lucre.’
She was doing a good job of it, Caffery thought. Cleo had been at King’s School in Bruton, the sort of education that’d put someone back a serious few bob.
‘It happened outside the school?’
‘Not right outside. Actually it was round the corner in the high street. I’d stopped to get something from the shop on my way into school. When I was walking to the car he just . . . appeared. Out of nowhere. Running.’
‘Did he say anything? Anything you remember?’
‘Yes. He said, “Get down, you bitch.” ’
Caffery stopped writing and looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘He said, “Get down, you bitch.” ’
‘The guy who did us said something like that,’ Damien offered. ‘Said, “Get down, you piece of shit,” to me, called the missus a bitch. Told her to move her arse.’
‘Why?’ said Simone, wonderingly. ‘Is it important?’
‘I don’t know.’ Caffery kept his eyes on Simone’s face. The same words the guy in Frome had said to Rose. He felt something start to tick deep in his thoughts. He cleared his throat, lowered his eyes and wrote ‘Language’ on his notepad. Question mark. Put a circle around it. Then he gave a confident smile. Damien and Simone looked back at him seriously.
‘If it’s the same guy,’ Simone said, ‘then isn’t it a bit of a coincidence? Three different cars? Each with a different girl in it? I mean,’ she lowered her voice, ‘do you wonder if it isn’t the cars he’s after but the girls? Doesn’t it make you wonder what he might have done to Martha?’
Caffery pretended he hadn’t heard that. He let his smile broaden and encompass them in his absolute assertion that everything, everything, was going to be just fine. Fine as a fairy cake with a cherry on top. ‘Thank you both for your time.’ He switched off the MP3 player and gestured in the direction of the door. ‘Shall we go and see if someone from CAPIT is here yet?’
8
Caffery’s office was heated by a tiny groaning radiator in the corner, but the windows were soon steamed up with the four people that crammed into it to conduct the interview with Cleo Blunt. Caffery stood in the corner, arms crossed. A small woman in her fifties, dressed in a pale-blue sweater and skirt set, sat at his desk, with a list of questions in her hand. She was a sergeant from CAPIT. Opposite her, in swivel chairs, sat Simone and ten-year-old Cleo. Cleo wore a brown pullover and cord jeans, with pink Kickers, and her blonde hair in bunches. She was thoughtfully stirring the cup of hot chocolate Lollapalooza had rustled up from the kitchen. Caffery didn’t need to see her sitting next to her rich mummy to grasp that this little character had private schools and Pony Club membership in her blood. You could tell it from the way she held herself. Still, she was sweet with it. Not obnoxious.
‘Now,’ the CAPIT sergeant began, ‘we’ve told you why you’re here, Cleo? Are you OK with that?’
Cleo nodded. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Right. Now, the man, the one who took Mum’s car.’
‘And never brought it back again.’
‘And never brought it back. I know you’ve already had to talk about him once, and when I spoke to the police officer who asked you all the questions before, she was pretty impressed by you. She told me you were wicked at remembering things. That you thought about the questions, and that when you didn’t know the answers, you didn’t bother making it up. She said you were really honest.’
Cleo gave a small smile.
‘But we’re going to have to ask you a few more questions. Some will be the same questions all over again. It might seem kind of boring, but it is important.’
‘I know it’s important. He’s got someone else, hasn’t he? Another little girl.’
‘We don’t know. Maybe. So we’ve got to ask you to help us again. If it gets too much just tell me and I’ll stop.’
The officer’s finger rested on the list of questions Caffery had prepared. She’d been briefed with what he wanted and she knew he wanted it fast. ‘You told the police officer before me that this man reminded you of someone. Someone out of a story?
‘I didn’t see his face. He had a mask on.’
‘But you told us something about his voice. It was a bit like someone’s . . . ?’
‘Oh, I know what you mean.’ Cleo half rolled her eyes, half smiled. Embarrassed by the words that had come out of her nine-year-old mouth just six months ago. ‘I said he was like Argus Filch out of Harry Potter. The one who’s got Mrs Norris. That’s who he sounded like.’
‘So shall we call him the Filch man?’
She shrugged. ‘If you want, but he was worse than Argus Filch. I mean a lot worse.’
‘OK. How about we call him the – I don’t know – the caretaker? Argus Filch is the caretaker at Hogwarts, isn’t he?’ Caffery pushed himself away from the wall. He walked to the door, turned and walked back again. He knew the CAPIT officer had a protocol to follow but he wished she’d get a wriggle on. He turned at the window and crossed the room again. The CAPIT officer raised her chin and eyed him coolly, then went back to Cleo. ‘Yes, I think we’ll do that. We’ll call him the “caretaker”.’
‘Cool. Whatevs.’
‘Cleo, I want you do something for me. I want you to imagine that you’re back in that car on that morning. The morning the caretaker got into your car. Now imagine it hasn’t happened yet. All right? You’re with Mum on the way to school. Can you picture that?’